Jasmines
by indulgence
Summary: A different perspective on the thoughts of one of the female gundam wing characters. Please read and review!


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Disclaimer: I just borrowed some of the Gundam Wing characters. Can't you tell by the way they're somewhat out of character? Anyway, I don't own them and I don't make any profit out of this. But I get a lot of rotten veggies for some reason.

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The wooden floor creaked beneath my weight, the subtle sound amplified by the stillness of all. Insignificant portraits hung about the dim gallery, their hollow eyes following my movement. The air was musty, stagnant with time. It carried me along, whispering the remnants of my broken memories upon my ears.

Thick, fiery flames appeared before me, smoldering what it simply touched. Billows of smoke followed not far behind, filling my lungs with its poison. I could feel the heat eagerly touching the surface of my skin. I could also feel _his_ calloused, filthy hand on my shoulder. His hard, unyielding grip forcing me to watch my mother's limp body consumed morbidly by his comrades. Their laughter encouraging my anger, taunting my tears to spill, but my eyes were empty, my heart unfeeling. Insatiable hunger gleamed in their eyes as they turned their attention at me.

"Madam, madam." A voice called out, the vision shrunk back to the retches of my mind and the gallery stood before me with its characteristically austere tone. I turn around and face the owner of the voice, a smirk apparent in his lips. "Madam," he continued confidently, "the reception is on the other wing, this is the west wing."

"Yes, of course." A smile lingers on my face and I walked back to the reception. Idiot. It was the saccharine state of the reception that had caused me to vacate it and wander about in the west wing.

Couples glided gracefully on the dance floor as if it was a pond of ice and they were skating along the slippery terrain. The melody of waltz drifted freely surrounding faces that were happy and content. A scent of a familiar flower mingled with the fresh air, wafting up and about the huge room.

I sit quietly, my eyes running along familiar faces. People I am often associated with. I caught sight of the bride and groom, chattering among guests. The bride's smile was of pure bliss—looking dreamily at her new husband. I have never seen her smile like that before. Dorothy Catalonia always has a smirk on her elegant features not like the one she wore looking at Quatre.

I avert my gaze to a couple swaying not far from where I sat. Her auburn head nestled on the sturdy plane of his chest; his arms clung on her waist protectively. I felt my body yearn for the warmth he once provided me. The way his unruly locks tingled my spine—his gentle lips leaving a trail of lingering kisses. I had allowed myself to indulge in my fascination with him. Believing I would be able to lose myself in his sultry caresses. His weight didn't crush me like the rough men in the burning palace. His kisses were enticing—gently yet demanding. Not crude or hurried like the others. The soft, satin bed creaked when he entered me. His thrusts were becoming faster with each second. So much like the sordid men in the burning palace. My mind tried to take hold of the present, but the past persisted on chasing it. And it caught up with it. His face interchanging with those of long ago, until I could no longer separate those faces.

Sensing my gaze at him, he looked up at me with his prussian blue eyes. They were indifferent, as they were when I first met him. Shrugging my shoulders I looked away. His and Catherine's engagement doesn't bother me at all, in spite of what others may say or think.

A waiter handed me a wineglass, its red content swirling to the sudden movement. I took a sip of it--warming my throat while it made its course downward. I placed it gingerly on the table before me and took note of the white-yellow color of the draping tablecloth. It reminded of a brother I have. His hair is of the same tone, long and it draped on his back like a cape of nobility. I often forget my relation to him. We seldom spoke to one another. Our incapability of discussing the past encases us in an awkward silence. We were born brother and sister, but grew up us strangers. The time lost cannot be atoned for without touching the past he refuses to remember. I walked with the past in the days of the present. A curse he is absolved from.

Someone nudged me to come to the middle of the room, the music has already ceased and the bride was ready to throw her bouquet. Young women giggled with excitement at the traditional prospect the bouquet represented. I stood at the side and watched as the flowers were thrown in air. Hands that were tightly huddled reached for it at the same time and it danced about uncooperatively. Taunting them to reach higher and closer to one another. A participant unwittingly knocked it away from the group and again it flew to the air. And fell unwillingly on my hands.

Applause filtered through the room and Dorothy came to congratulate me, followed by Quatre and many others. I stood there smiling at them, as I was supposed to. Traditions or old wives' tales were never what I believed in. They are nothing but stories made out of boredom and optimistic hope. 

Dancing again continued, and I withdrew from the buoyant crowd, quietly bidding my farewell to the new husband and wife. Clutching the bouquet in my hand I sat on the back of the car and watched the scene change as we pass by. That familiar scent again wafted my nostrils and I looked about to where it came from. It was the bouquet. Jasmines alternately adorned it. They were of the same color that mother had planted in her garden. They were the same kind that I was picking when those soldiers came. They were the same pastel yellow that cluttered among the corpses and burnt debris of the cold floor.

The green, sticky flesh of the stem smirched my hand, mingling with the sweat it now produced. I looked out in the window and saw the blueness of the ocean—gleaming with the reflection of the sun.

"Stop here." The chauffeur looked at me uncertainly, wondering if he had heard right. "I shall walk the rest of the way home." Nodding he halted the car and I stepped out.

The breeze encircled me, greeting me as if I was an old friend. I treaded the path I have befriended long before, sandals in one hand, bouquet the other. Nearing the edge, the beauty of the ocean stretched out in the horizon—undaunted neither by time nor by the wrath of men. Mist sprung gaily as the waves collided forcefully on the moss-infested rocks below. Bringing about an acrid smell in the air. Sensing my presence, the ocean brought about waves that curled and uncurled in a manner of a hand beckoning one. Calling out to me like I was her lost child. Whispering promises of happiness that lay on her mighty belly.

I laughed at her ignorance. For I have already died. The day of unspeakable horrors, which carried on 'till nightfall was when Relena Peacecraft died, along with her mother, her father, and the rest of them. What I live now is my purgatory. My punishment for leading them to mother. For not doing anything.

I cast my eyes down on the jasmines I hold in my hand. The belief of future marriage coursing through the outlines of its petals—burning my hand. I flung it to the rushing water and it opened its mouth swallowing it in thirst. I turn about and walk away. Happiness is not permitted in purgatory.

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